Mr. Larson laughed, and his hand went higher on my back, rubbed encouragingly, fatherly. I cursed myself for playing it wrong again, but I made a mental note too. He likes me broken.

“So what’s the deal?” Mr. Larson asked, removing his hand entirely and straightening up. “You going back there in September to film?”

A logistical question. Not much opportunity to unravel there. “I am. Are you?”

Mr. Larson shifted on his barstool and grimaced. It was too small for someone like him to sit comfortably. “Same.”

The bartender came by and asked if we wanted another. I nodded, eagerly, but Mr. Larson said he was fine. I slunk in a little and tried not to show it. “Is Whitney on board for it?” I exhaled, irritably. “Because Luke isn’t.”

“Luke doesn’t want you to do it?” I could see this bothered Mr. Larson, and I was glad.

“He just felt like it would take me back to a very dark place. And while we’re planning our wedding, no less.”

“Well, he’s concerned about you. I can see that.”

I shook my head, excited for the opportunity to expose the great St. Luke. “He just doesn’t want to deal with me and my silly hysteria. Nothing would make him happier than if I were to never mention Bradley again.”

Mr. Larson traced his finger along the rim of his glass, tenderly, and I could feel him smoothing a Band-Aid over the tear in my face that night in his apartment. Saying, “There,” once it latched tight on to my skin. He spoke into his empty glass. “Moving on doesn’t mean you don’t talk about it. Or hurt about it. It’s always going to hurt, I imagine.” He glanced at me, almost shyly, to see if I agreed, which is a courtesy Luke never pays me. No, Luke just gets up on his soapbox, purports to tell me exactly how I should metabolize that cruel slice of my life. Why do I need to do the documentary? I shouldn’t care so goddamn much about what everyone thinks of me. Easy to say when everyone fucking loves you.

“I don’t mean to speak for you,” Mr. Larson said, “I’m sorry.” His apology made me realize I was scowling.

“No.” I blinked Luke away. “You’re exactly right. Thank you. For saying that. No one ever says stuff like that to me.”

“I’m sure he does his best.” Mr. Larson reached for my hand, and I was so surprised all my limbs stiffened and he had to fight a little to get it, to hold my hand up in the air like a man leading a woman to a dance floor in Victorian times. “He obviously loves you.” He pressed his thumb to the evidence on my finger, twisted the stone just a little, and raised his eyebrows at me.

It was the perfect moment to be bold. “But I want someone to get me.”

Mr. Larson placed my hand on the bar, carefully. I wondered if he had picked up on it, the pulse of every last nerve he had hit. “That’s a two-part deal, Tif. You have to let yourself be got.”

I leaned my head on my hand. Spoke the line I’d rehearsed in my head so many times ever since our meet-cute. “Mr. Larson,” I said, “you really don’t want to call me Ani, do you?”

“Is this your way of asking if you can call me Andrew?” His lip curled into the arch that’s always there whenever I picture him at the front of the classroom. This man really could not be hustled, and I was inflamed with a need for him, as basic and savage as thirst. “Because you can.”

Andrew’s shirt pocket suddenly lit up bright like Iron Man’s heart. He removed his phone, and I caught “Whit” on the screen. The absence of the last three letters of her name read like a betrayal. “Sorry,” he said. “I’m meeting my wife for dinner after this. I didn’t realize the time.”

Well, of fucking course he’s meeting his wife for dinner after this, Ani. What did you think? That the two of you were going to declare your true love for each other at a soulless, charmless wine bar in Flatiron and go and get a hotel room? You’re disgusting.

“I just want to tell you something quickly,” I said, and it dragged Andrew’s eyes away from his phone, at least. “Something I’ve wanted to say for a long time. I’m really sorry. About what happened in Headmaster Mah’s office. How I backed out on you like that.”

“You don’t have to apologize, Tif.”

“Ani” wasn’t going to stick with him, but I didn’t mind it. “I do, though. And I never told you this, but”—I hung my head—“I spoke to Dean on the phone that morning at your place. When you ran out to CVS.”

Andrew sat on that for a moment. “But, how did he know you were at my apartment?”

“He didn’t.” I explained how I called home to tell my parents I was on my way, how I found out Dean was trying to track me down. “I actually thought I could go in to school on Monday and everything would be okay.” I snorted scornfully. “God, I was an idiot.”

“Dean was the idiot.” Andrew placed his phone on the bar top and steadied his eyes on me. “It was all Dean’s fault. Never yours.”

“And I let him get away with it.” I released a disgusted breath. “Because I was scared I wouldn’t be popular anymore if I didn’t. I’m so mad at myself for that.” In college, when rumors swirled that some freshman had been taken advantage of by some lacrosse player, I’d found myself furious with her for not reporting him. Don’t just let them get away with it! I’d wanted to scream, standing next to her in line for the salad bar. But then something about the way she piled the cauliflower florets on top of her salad—no one ever put cauliflower in her salad—swung like a wrecking ball at my heart. Made me wonder if that had been her favorite vegetable as a child, if her mom cooked it especially for her even though her brothers and sisters groaned their hatred for cauliflower. I wanted to reach out and wrap my arms around her from behind, press my face into her soapy-smelling blond hair, say, “I know.”

Because I couldn’t do it either. Mr. Larson had poked his floppy-haired head into Headmaster Mah’s office first thing Monday morning, like we planned, and told him there had been another issue with Dean Barton and also with the new student Liam Ross. I didn’t even make it to homeroom. Mrs. Dern found me in the hallway and said I was needed in Headmaster Mah’s office immediately. I trudged past the Junior and Senior Lounge, through the cafeteria yawning with the few students who relied on it for breakfast, and up the stairs to the administration wing. Mr. Larson was standing in the corner of Mah’s office, politely leaving the one lone seat open for me. I refused to look at him; I could just feel the expectation of his encouraging smile. As I denied everything, the only place I could stand to look was at my Steve Madden clogs, the soles ringed white with rainwater. I wondered if Mom knew how to get that out.

“So you don’t have an incident to report?” Headmaster Mah practically panted, not even bothering to hide his relief. The Bartons had financed the new addition to the cafeteria, after all.

I smiled and said I didn’t. The cut on my face was just barely covered in concealer. Headmaster Mah noticed it and did a poor job of pretending not to.

“What happened?” Mr. Larson demanded in the hallway.

“Can we just let it go?” I pleaded. I didn’t stop walking. I could tell he wanted to put his hand on my arm and stop me, but we both knew he couldn’t. I walked faster, trying to escape his disappointment. It filled up the hallway like cheap cologne.

Now, all these years later, Andrew examined me like you would a new freckle on your chest. When did that appear, exactly? Could it be dangerous? “You need to give yourself some more credit, Tif,” he said. “You were just trying to get through.” Under the smooth bar lights, I could not detect a single flaw in his wide, handsome face. “You made something out of yourself, and you did it honestly. Unlike some people we know.”

I seethed, “Dean,” even though sometimes I think we’re more similar than I’d like to admit.

We sat in a dreamy silence for a few moments, the lights softening all our edges, filling in our holes. I watched, out of the corner of my eye, as the bartender noticed us again. Tried to will him away, but he asked, “Can I get you anything else?”